Pygmalion
by unitarymatrix
Summary: Harry asks a reluctant Hermione to create a living portrait of Snape for the Headmaster's office. With Ginny and Luna, she collects memories of Snape from those who knew him, and through one man's life story, comes to terms with what was lost in the war.
1. Prologue

_Authors Note: Post Deathly Hallows. Divergence from canon is strictly my error, so point any of those out to me. Nitpickers are the literary oxpeckers on the great hippo of fan fiction._

_Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all these characters, along with half the world.  
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**Prologue  
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The obsidian lid slid shut, and Hermione watched him go. Only a scattering of cloaked figures stood by, so much fewer than for his predecessor. There were no chairs set out for kinsmen, colleagues, students, or friends. No magical creatures came to pay homage. No heavenly light broke the darkness of the clouds above. Hermione could smell the threat of rain in the air, and the thin scent of smoke from a Hogwarts still burning.

Headmistress McGonagall stepped forward and threw a clod of dirt on the black box below, and the others followed suit. Hermione turned away, suppressing the urge to throw it all in- all the stone rubble, broken enchantments, bodies of the loved and unloved, alike. Thrown in, covered up, and put away. Never to feel, to breathe, to exist as the sun and the skies and the stars continued to turn in their ceaseless cycle above the cold burial of the past. So much was lost in the time of a single breath. In the heat of battle, righteousness and faith gave her purpose. Now, at the end of it all, Hermione could feel only the senselessness of death. And regret.

McGonagall open her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged. As she looked upon the spectators, the crowd shuffled awkwardly and cast sheepish looks at their neighbors. No one had words to memorialize a man who was hated at his worst, and disliked at his best. A man whose allegiances throughout his life were multiple and yet, always, singular. A man whose few friends laid in tombs long sealed. With a sigh betraying a fatigue heavy for even a woman of her great age, the Headmistress silently waved her wand. Fresh earth sealed the aching ground, and two words were carved into the simple grey stone at the head. Wordlessly, she nodded, turned, and walked away from the scene. Wordlessly, the others followed.

Hermione was the last to go. Kneeling, she traced the lettering on the small rock as two fat droplets landed on its surface. "Severus Snape." No more, no less. He was gone, and Hermione had watched him go. She stood and turned, a flash of lightening illuminating her shadow on the fresh dirt. A moment later, when a boom of thunder chased its brother across the lake to the mound with its little stone, only emptiness greeted him. All that remained were echoes scattering in the night air.


	2. Chapter 1: The Absence

_Disclaimer: All the characters are owned by a certain Ms. JK Rowling, lord creator of it all._

**Chapter One: The Absence**

"It's a waste of time," Hermione said, scowling. Really, she didn't know what Harry was off about. She slumped down onto the headmaster's desk with a visible huff.

As Hogwarts changed headmasters throughout the years, each refurnished their office to their tastes. Dumbledore covered the ancient desk with a menagerie of silver instruments, Snape elected for the coldness of its bare mahogany, but Headmistress McGonagall chose something far more curious. Tiny shimmering multicolored puffs of fur now skittered up, down, and across the surface of the worn wood. The balls would respond to the Headmistress' slightest gesture, skittering to bring her a pen or sheet of parchment from within one of the desk's dozen drawers. Professor Flitwick declared it a testament to the witch's unrivaled mastery in Transfiguration. As the brightest witch her age, Hermione had been curious about the magical origins of these mysterious critters, but then she spotted a orange puff suspiciously similar to a hairball Crookshanks coughed up earlier that week, and decided she would delve no deeper into the mysteries of Minerva McGonagall's spellcraft.

The promotion of Professor McGonagall to Headmistress of Hogwarts was one of the few happy moments in what was a long and hard reconstruction. Even under the skilled wands of a dozen aurors from the Ministry of Magic, the outbreaks of fiendfyre raging within the castle took weeks to quell. All the better for that, for no one had the appetite then to rebuild. It was a time for the dust to settle, for the rain to wash away the grime of battle, and for the dead to be buried.

Fred's funeral had been the hardest. Whereas Hermione had felt a certain peace as Remus and Tonks were laid side by side in the good earth, knowing that the two lovers were together adventuring in that final frontier, the sound of Molly Weasley's sharp sobs still rang painfully in her ears. Eight heads of fiery red hair watching their ninth descend into darkness. George injected brief respites of levity throughout the ceremony, throwing a Skiving Snackbox down the hole- for "tricking the ol' overgrown bat in the hereafter," he said- and even firing off a set of Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-Bangs in the evening. Dozens of sparking images of Fred's face appeared in the explosion, each with a comically over-pronounced nose or set of large flapping ears. George was all smiles and jokes, desperately trying to lightened everyone's mood. Yet, when no one else was looking, Hermione would catch him blankly staring into the distance, his eyes searching some far away point on the horizon, as if waiting for a loved one late for dinner to finally return.

"There are far more important things to be done right now," Hermione insisted, and no one could deny that was true. The rebuilding of Hogwarts had gone badly- the hope of reopening the school for the fall semester was now laughable. The aged stones of the castle kept their secrets. Many of the enchantments imbued in them by the four founders had long been lost to time. To save what magic was left, when possible, the walls were remade with rubble carefully mended rather than replaced with new masonry. Those mysteries that were ground to dust or reduced to smoldering ashes, such as the Room of Requirement- that haven to so many generations of young wizards and witches- were lost forever.

"It's the right thing to do," Harry replied. "He deserves to be here." He looked to the hanging portrait of Dumbledore for affirmation, but the image only winked at Harry from behind his half moon spectacles.

"Snape abandoned his post before he died, that's why his portrait didn't appear," Hermione argued. "I mean, it makes a certain sort of sense for him not to be here; he wasn't a 'real' headmaster any how-"

"He's as real as any of them!" Harry shook as he gestured towards the other portraits on the wall. "And as important too. He played his part Hermione, and saved us all. Don't you understand?"

Indeed she understood. Harry's words to Voldemort during their final battle inspired a rage of interest from all of magical Britain into the life and loves of Hogwarts shortest termed headmaster. Rita Skeeter's "Snape: Scoundrel or Saint" was published with miraculous speed, fueled by an insatiable public appetite that did not care to distinguish fact from fiction.

Yet, though Hermione knew the secrets the Pensieve revealed to Harry, the tragic heroism in Snape's last acts clashed against the will of her own reality. One view into murky waters and the pale floating strands another soul's past were swept away by waves of memories she collected with her own eyes, the insults she heard with her own ears, and the loss she felt in her own heart. She remembered the favoritism the man flaunted in every potions lesson held in those cold dungeons, the enjoyment in his eyes when he saw his students shake in fear of him. She remembered "I see no difference," and the hot sting of her tears. She remembered her heart aching as Ron held her at Dumbledore's funeral, the moment her innocence- that delicate faith of children in protection from fear, from death- was torn from her.

"He's no hero, Harry," she said, quietly.

Harry breathed a deep and weary sigh, turning his face away to gaze unseen at the portrait of Dumbledore once more. But the great wizard had fallen asleep, his deep snores punctuating the silence like a slow metronome. "It's alright Hermione. I understand."

She stared at the thin figure of the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One who had so bravely faced his duty to die for them all now had to somehow live for them all. To put back together all that was torn asunder. Hermione didn't know which was a more impossible task to ask of someone. She gazed down as three orange puffs softly purred and tickled her hand.

"Alright," she finally sighed. "It doesn't hurt to try to find out if it's possible."

Harry enveloped her in a wide embrace. Hermione felt a tension in her spine she had carried for so many months slowly beginning to ease. He said nothing, but one look from Harry's now shining green eyes carried his thanks to Hermione.

"I can't promise anything, " she warned him. "Some of these old enchantments, well, no one really knows how to cast them anymore. The great twelfth century magical painter Horatio Locksley once claimed that…" Harry just smiled and nodded, as they walked arm in arm out of the Headmaster's office.


	3. Chapter 2: The History

_Author's Note: A slight literary digression. Note that the myth of Pygmalion is about a sculpture that comes to life. Shakespeare draws from this myth in the final scene of "A Winter's Tale," where a tomb effigy come to life. The effigy turns out to be the character Queen Hermione from earlier in the play. Weird, huh? Unfortunately this connection will be in no way reflected in the plot of this fic. I aint no James Joyce, y'all!_

_Disclaimer: Some say that JK Rowling is actually the twelfth Cylon._

**Chapter Two: The History**

As Ginny pulled the textbook off the shelf, a string of high pitched sneezes erupted from behind the bookcase. Peering around, she found a red nosed, teary eyed, and highly agitated Hermione collapsed on a library stool.

"I'm… going… to kill… ahh… AHH…" Ginny quickly grabbed her handkerchief and handed it to Hermione as another chain of spasms gripped the bushy haired girl.

"… Neville Longbottom!"

"Well, you did insist that McGonagall put him in charge of all this," Ginny reminded her. Hermione only glared back.

At first the Aurors were more than happy to have the "Hero of Gryffindor" help with the Hogwarts reconstruction effort. However, after a particularly exasperating incident involving an outbreak of fiendfyre, one Whomping Willow, and two dozen mildly singed and very annoyed centaurs, they had come to the Headmistress suggesting that perhaps there were more "important tasks" where Mr. Longbottom's talents would be put to better use.

It was Hermione who came up with a plan to spare Neville's pride. The library, her beloved haunt, had escaped the worst in the battle against the Death Eaters. True, most of the books had fallen in the violent tremors during Voldemort's barrage, several of the study tables were destroyed, and a few bookcases had also collapsed, but, luckily, the library survived mostly intact. Hermione had deemed the task perfectly harmless, and therefore perfect for Neville.

As Ginny gazed at the book shelf before her, she became increasingly convinced that Neville had never before set foot in the library in all his years at Hogwarts. Hundreds of books were haphazardly stacked in a filing system that appeared to have neither rhyme nor reason. Her gaze floated over a shelf where "The Treacherous Arts of Goblin Necromancy Vol. 1" stood adjacent to a "The Thrifty Witch's Guide to Vacationing: Godric's Hollow," which itself sat on top of a coffee stained "Seven Habits of Highly Effective Elves." Earlier, when searching through the Restricted Section, she had found a magazine on Muggle knitting patterns. Admittedly, she had found the book oddly captivating, but it hardly seemed like censorship material.

In addition the general bibliographical disarray, Neville had also neglected to recapture several copies of "The Monster Book of Monsters" that had gotten loose in the fray. From what Ginny could see, the furry books had nested behind the card catalogue cabinets, producing several volumes of short study guides as offspring. Ginny watched as "Magical Rodentia of the Bulgarian Tundra" skittered behind the circulation desk, leaving a trail of literary dander behind it.

"It's ironic you know," spoke a soft voice from above. Ginny and Hermione looked up and found Luna sitting above the top self of the bookcase, almost two stories above them, looking quite content as she dangled her legs over the edge.

"What's ironic?" asked Hermione.

"That you'd be the one, of all people, to wind up allergic to books," Luna replied thoughtfully. Ginny and Hermione looked at each other, contemplated this, and then both burst into giggles. As the laughter quieted, the girls resumed their search of the library.

Two unsuccessful hours later, with the growling in her stomach reaching audible decibels, Ginny's wanderings found Hermione again. Sitting cross legged behind a toppled desk, immersed in a Gregorian text on animation charms, Hermione's visage held ever the slightest hint of a sad frown. Ginny paused conscientiously before softly breaking the silence.

"Hermione, I know how important this is to Harry, but still there's just something about this portrait that doesn't sit right with me." Hermione looked up at her in surprise.

"The idea of copying the shadow of some person- a person who by all laws of the world should be dead- and trapping it into some object, seems deeply unnatural. Like a Dark Art." She paused again, looking deep into Hermione's now curious eyes. "Doesn't it remind you a bit of Voldemort and his Horcruxes?"

Caught in the shadow of the tall bookcases surrounding her, Ginny shivered as she remembered the sound of a boy's voice, whispering soft and silky. She absently flipped through the textbook in her hands, recalling the peaty smell from the worn pages of that vile journal. Sometimes, even now, when she was alone on the darkest of nights, she'd stay awake for hours, fearful of falling into that deep empty sleep from which she couldn't wake.

Hermione grasped her hand, understanding, as old friends do, the memories running through Ginny's mind. "But I think they are different. These portraits seem to me like more complicated forms of the cards you get with chocolate frogs. And certainly no one needed to be murdered to make them."

Ginny still felt rather grim, but she nodded to Hermione's logic. "The similarities are rather disturbing."

"Hmm, maybe a little," admitted Hermione. Suddenly Hermione looked away, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration as she fell deep into thought. A beat later, she flew up and spun to face Ginny. "Of course, how could I have been so silly! I know why we haven't been able to find any book about this magic here in the library. And I know where to find it!"

Confused, Ginny watched as Hermione ran out of the library. She arched her eyebrow at the sound of Hermione's rapidly receding footsteps as Luna floated down from atop a nearby bookcase. The two girls shared a puzzled look, shrugged, and then ran out of the library.

* * *

><p>"Colorpoint Persian," spoke Luna to the massive gargoyle standing in the hallway. The heavy doors swung open to reveal an energetic Hermione, excitedly dashing between piles of books stacked perilously high. Ginny muttered a quick "Wingardium Leviosa" as three large texts toppled towards Hermione's head.<p>

Ginny was quite grateful when Headmistress McGonagall gave some of the students permission to use her office, as it was one of the few undamaged rooms left at Hogwarts. Looking around at the disaster the Golden Trio had made of the place, she could already envision the thin line of the Professor's frown and the kind but stern glare they would surely all receive. She was reminded of the perennial arguments between Mum and Ron during holidays at the Burrow.

"All it takes to clean this room up is one little spell," her mother complained every time.

"Well, if it's just one spell, why can't you cast it?" Ron would explain to his exasperated mother. Ginny, always meticulous with her things, found that mentality equally maddening.

"Here it is!" Hermione exclaimed. She picked up a very worn and monstrously large tome, dropping it onto the Headmaster's desk with a loud thump, several nearly crushed puffs chittering angrily back at her. Swirls of dust streamed off of the cover and Ginny could faintly make out a jumble of silver calligraphic letters etched on black velvet.

"When Dumbledore and Harry were searching for the Horcruxes, Dumbledore moved every book that even mentioned a Horcrux into his office for safe keeping," she explained. "I just realized that in all the reconstruction hullabaloo Professor McGonagall probably didn't have the time to properly move in yet, and they were all likely still here. I bet anything the secret to magical portraiture is in this book." Ginny and Luna stood aside and watched Hermione throw the giant book open. She bit her lip, and poked her wand at the thousands upon thousands of pages that sat in front of her.

"Accio magical portraiture?" she tried. The pages flipped furiously before settling on a yellowed and heavily creased page near the end. Ginny suppressed a small smile; she was always amused by the simple magical solutions the muggle-born Hermione had for such everyday things. Even coming from a wizarding family, and surrounded by magic from the moment she was born, Ginny would have probably just settled for looking at the index.

"Here it is!" Hermione stood up straight and began to read the text in her crispest official textbook recitation voice. "Deus Mechanica: The ability to recreate the human psyche within inanimate objects." Luna and Ginny crowded behind Hermione to follow along as she read.

"Deus Mechanica is neither a single spell nor a type of magic," Hermione continued. "Rather, it is an evolving hierarchical system of enchantments and spell craft with the purpose of replicating aspects of the psyche, from simple memory storage to more advanced recreation of personality and reaction. Deus Mechanica magics, first invented in Ancient Greece and further refined in the Middle Ages, was developed by wizards in the pursuit of Deus Exemplar, the power to replicate the human soul."

The three girls gasped in unison before continuing, entranced. "Atlantian sorcerers conducted the earliest experiments in Deus Mechanica when taking refuge on Crete after the destruction of their mythical city. In remembrance of their lost home, they created the first known moving paintings to ensure the legacy of their waning culture. These are the same spells that animate magic photographs by the 19th century. These charmed images illustrate the basic process that on which all Deus Mechanica magics rely- the imbuement of human memory into an inanimate object."

"Soon after the destruction of Atlantis, the Atlantian wizards and the great magics of their nation met with an untimely demise at the hands of the ancient dark wizard Herpo the Foul. Seeking to steal the vast reserves of orichalcum hidden by the high Atlantian priests in their new city Minoa, Herpo bred an army of basilisks, as powerful as they were miasmic. On a moonless night during the vernal equinox, as the priest were peacefully slumbering after indulging in the victuals and libations of their spring planting festival, waves upon waves of serpents slithered through the labyrinth surrounding the hidden Atlantian temple. Slaying the temple's mighty champion, the Minotaur, and murdering the priests as they slept, the basilisks handed over the greatest alchemic cache of the ancient world to the nefarious Herpo."

"In the bacchic scourging of Europe following Herpo's victory, the dark wizard exploited many of the magics he stole from the Atlantians, but of most import is his creation of a Horcrux via the perversion of Deus Mechanica. Using a fragment of his soul, shattered via murder most foul, Herpo imbued his orichalcum staff with spirit rather than memory, granting him a form of immortality. Many modern Dark Art scholars believe that Horcruxes are the closest to Deux Exemplar that wizards have ever been able to achieve. It is unknown how Herpo and his Horcrux was ultimately defeated; indeed, there are those that still believe he never was- that rather his spirit still roams this world, broken and tormented, spewing discord and evil."

Hermione nervously eyed Luna and Ginny as she paused. Ginny wrapped her arms around herself; the temperature in the chamber seemed have suddenly drop ten degrees. She gave Hermione an I-told-you-so look, to which Hermione gave a tight frown, flipped past a few pages, and began to read again.

"In the earliest examples of Deus Mechanica, the painter uses only a single visual memory to enchant a canvas, a process called 'Unius Mens ut Manus.' However, by the 5th century, wizards discovered that they could imbue not only experienced memories onto cloth, but also dreams and fantasies as well. This process of 'Unius Somnia ut Manus' allowed wizard painters to create magical paintings of people, places, and things that existed only in their fertile minds. However, magical artists found that characters created from a single dream or fantasy tended to be shallow and single-minded, lacking depth in reaction or perception." Ginny was suddenly reminded of crazy Sir Cadogan and his fat little pony hanging on the seventh floor of Hogwarts; she wondered what bizarre dream lead to the creation of that insane creature.

"By the 7th century, artists began to interweave multiple dreams within a single painting, creating far more realistic and dynamic creations, and inventing the process of 'Plurimus Somnia ut Manus.' The complexity and craftsmanship behind magical paintings continue to evolve and improve throughout the next few centuries. Art historians often refer to the 12th century as the High Period of magical portraiture, lead by masters such as Sir Horatio Locksley and…"

"I read about him!" Hermione exclaimed, looking up with bright eyes and cheeks flushed in excitement. "In 'Hogwarts: A History,' it said that many of the castles paintings, including those that guard the House common room entrances, were in fact painted by Locksley during his 'Romance Period,' after his exile to the Andalusian mountains but prior to his relocation to…" Hermione trailed off as Ginny and Luna stared at her in silence. Clearing her throat and turning back to the book with cheeks now red something other than excitement, Hermione continued reading.

"Such as Sir Horatio Locksley, Lord Obadiah Slope of Barchester, and Countess Maelys Cabot from the Lyon school. The creation of magical portraiture, however, faced a sharp decline in 15th century, during the rise of the Spanish Inquisition. The century was marked by several scandalous Muggle thefts of wizard portraiture, and the subsequent murders of their creators as devil worshiping heretics. It appears that most wizards of this period placed the catharsis of their artistic needs as second to their desire to not be burned alive at the stake."

"Though the craft of creating imagined paintings diverged from the initial intent of Deus Exemplar, those pursuing that ultimate ambition were able to leverage the magical techniques developed by these artists. It was Helga Hufflepuff, one of the four renowned founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who pioneered the process of 'Plurimus Mens ut Manus,' the interweaving of multiple experienced memories for the purpose of creating a realistically reacting replica of a person."

"I knew Helga couldn't only be famous for her food-related charms," thought Ginny out loud, admiringly. "People really don't give the Hufflepuff name enough credit."

"The ever loyal Hufflepuff," Hermione read. "Having lost many dear friends in the war against the Dark Witch Morgan le Fay during the ninth century, was stricken with such grief that she sought a magical way to recreate their much missed companionship. She was the first to understand that the binding medium for memory is as critical as the memory enchantment itself; rather than using the standard enchanted unicorn hair canvas, Hufflepuff transfigured key personal items belonging to the target into media meant to contain the memories. This advanced technique produces Deux Mechanica replicas that many claim to be indistinguishable from the original."

"The legacy of Hufflepuff's Deux Mechanica magics are detailed in her autobiographical spell book 'Poultry and Paintings' as well as evidenced in the generations of portraits hanging in the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts. Considered Hufflepuff's greatest gift to the school, the memories of past Headmasters are preserved not simply for posterity, but also to benefit future generations of wizards with their wisdom and insight."

"Since Hufflepuff's work in the 10th century, many great wizards, both good and dark, have attempted to further the pursuit of Deux Exemplar, but to no avail. It is now commonly accepted by the magical community that it is not possible to replicate the human soul through any magical means- that is to say, the goal of Deux Exemplar goes against the fabric of nature itself. The human soul remains ever singular and unique."

Hermonie stopped there, and the three girls let out a collective breath that none of them had realized they were holding. "Well there it is," said Hermione. "We just need a copy of Helga's spellbook. But where could it be? I've never even heard of it." She looked at Ginny, who only shrugged, indicating her own ignorance on the subject.

"Isn't it obvious?" Luna spoke from behind them. The girl lifted her head and yelled loudly into the empty air. "Winky!"

There was loud snapping sound as a small miserable looking creature stumbled out from a blank stone wall, hiccuping, a mug of butterbeer in hand.

"If you want a book on poultry, best ask a cook!" Luna explained. Reaching out a hand to steady the wobbling house-elf, Luna asked kindly "Winky, do you happen to have seen a copy of Helga Hufflepuff's spellbook lying around? It's very important that we get a look at it."

"Aye Mistress Lovegood, Winky's seen the thing. Winky was helping Kreacher prepare the roast quail for lunch in the kitchens, and Winky saw Kreacher using it for the never-drippy gravy recipe. Winky will fetch! Winky will fetch!" Excited hopping back and forth on her spindly legs, little elf spun on the spot, and disappeared.

Thinking of warm gravy on roast quail, Ginny's stomach began to gurgle again as she realized the three girls had likely missed lunch at the Great Hall. Sounding ever so much more like her mother than she cared to admit, she put her arms around the two girls and declared "Well, I think after this we'll all have to head to the Great Hall for some food; it'll do no one any good if use three fine witches were to starve in the pursuit of magical knowledge." Luna nodded in vigorous agreement but Hermione only absentmindedly tilted her head as she silently continued to read the book in front of them.

A loud crash came from the back of the room and the three girls ran towards the ensuing sound of scuffling. They found Winky and Kreacher in the back tower, engaged in a tug of war with a thin spiral-bound book between them.

"Winky... needs... book... for... mistresses!" grunted the little female elf as she pulled on her end. Kreacher, older but less intoxicated, clawed the book from her, rolling backwards with the momentum and hitting the wall. The older elf gingerly picked himself up and dusted himself off with a disdainful, distinguished air, before charging towards Winky. With great ferocity, he began to repeatedly smack the poor elf in the back of her head with the pages.

"Kreacher stop, it!" Hermione exclaimed. She pulled the book from him as the old elf gave her a disapproving stare.

"Kreacher needs the book for suppertime!" the wrinkled elf grumbled. "The Yorkshire pudding from yesterday won't reheat properly without the Inner-Flame-Gooey-Center incantation."

"We'll have it back to you in plenty of time for supper," said Luna, trying to appease him. Kreacher only sniffed unapologetically, muttering something about ruining roast beef with rock hard biscuits as he disappeared. Winky tottered behind him, another mug of butter somehow appearing in her hand before she, too, apparated.

The girls turned expectantly towards their quarry as Hermione opened the book in her hand. As Ginny peered over her shoulder, she saw a page filled with thinly drawn geometric shapes and scratched lines. Quickly flipping through the rest of the book, the girls found only more of the same.

"Ancient Runes!" Ginny and Luna groaned as Hermione simultaneously squealed the same in excitement.

"Well, that's it," Ginny asserted. "This is Helga Hufflepuff herself trying to tell us to take a break. Cold or not, those biscuits Kreacher mentioned sound pretty spectacular right about now. And I demand we head to the kitchens at once before one of us faints!"

"Alright," Hermione sighed, smiling, giving in. "I'll translate this book later. But I've got to head off for a quick errand first; I'll join you in the kitchens in a few minutes."

Ginny eyed the girl suspiciously, and wagged her finger at Hermione with mock disapproval. "Well, we'll meet you there, I suppose. But I remind you, Hermione Granger, Harry's given me his Marauder's Map for the week. If I see you disappearing off somewhere to so something silly, say translating a cookbook written in ancient runes, I'll come find you and drag you up to the kitchens myself!"

Hermione giggled and nodded as the girls left the office. It felt good to have Ginny take care of her. It felt good to read books, laugh with friends, break up house-elf fights, and live life as if nothing bad had happened. It felt good. It had been a good day.

* * *

><p>Hermione feels along the wall for the hidden latch that opens the door to the broom closet. A blank piece of stone wall swings out, allowing her entrance into the tiny dark room. With a quick "Lumos" the closet is filled with a weak green light and her shadow dances on the wall as she sits down, feeling along the exposed stone wall for support. Under her breath she mutters a few quiet incantations and the walls momentarily glow with unknown magic.<p>

She sighs and closes her eyes, trying to focus. She tries to think only of the present, of her body, of her breath. She tries to meditate, tries to be aware only of the hunger gnawing at her belly. Tries to be mindful of her tongue as it yearns for something warm. Yorkshire pudding? No, something sweet. Hot cocoa perhaps. Or chocolate. She feels the memory of sweetness and richness sliding down her throat flicker through her mind. She focuses on it. On her body's need and only that.

But then there is a flicker of something else. A hand offering her chocolate. A kind face sleeping in worn robes. That same hand dispelling the cold cloaked ones. That hand connected to the arm connected to the torso connected to the neck connected to the head, with the mouth smiling and laughing and yelling "Riddikulus!" That mouth kissing another mouth, attached to another head, a different head, of vibrant ever-changing hair. Those same mouthes, white and cold, as they laid on blankets in the Hogwarts Great Hall, never to kiss again.

Hermione's eyes fly open. Her eyes seek out something in the dimly lit room, but she finds nothing, only emptiness. She touches her face. It is wet. She lays down, curling into herself. She sighs. She cries.


	4. Chapter 3: The Translation

_Author's Note: If JRR Tolkien feels free to bust out with random poetry in his works, then I shall take my liberties._

_Disclaimer: I think JK Rowling should be the next incarnation of Dr. Who._

**Chapter**** 3: ****The ****Translation**

"To Compass Memory"  
><em>by Helga Hufflepuff<em>  
><em>translated by Hermione Granger<em>

Lo! Behold the walk of men alike,  
>Through memory directions take.<br>To East the forming of the dawn  
>And infant innocence break.<br>Till South, the foehn wind, traveling far  
>Youth aflame in passion's star,<br>Burns too bright for Northern lights,  
>Mistral sifting wrong from right<br>Frozen, finally, decides.

So when, sinking, on the West  
>Stilled in long inculcated peace,<br>A sun, falling to deserved rest,  
>Will dim, coruscate, out of reach.<br>But then, one time, perhaps, in rare,  
>The sun will burst from silent air,<br>And cry out to the earth before  
>To desert South and glacial North,<br>To East, where all life springs forth,  
>"Abba! Adonai! 'Tis I!"<br>And finds the will to survive,  
>Blazing red across the sky,<br>For one final glory,  
>And then no more.<br>And then no more.

All lives are as this is,  
>In some shape proportionate.<br>All memory contained as this,  
>In four directions appropriate.<p>

Need you luminaries  
>To populate the night,<br>Left by waning sun,  
>Unwind wind's shadow<br>From all four corners,  
>Til mortal coil's undone.<br>Paint glory red with glacial blues,  
>Desert yellow in bright green hues,<br>Deathly pallor will spring remove,  
>For the sun will rise again,<br>And seasons fail to end.


End file.
